


Destiny

by mrs_leary (julie)



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF, Somewhere in Time
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Friendship, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/mrs_leary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his twenty-first birthday, Bradley receives an old photo of a beautiful young man with astonishing cheekbones and a loving smile, along with the message, ‘Come find me’. There's only one catch - the message was sent over a hundred years before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my darling friend **asifidletyou** , who asked for a fic based on the movie _Somewhere in Time_. Well, this turned out to be more ‘inspired by’ than ‘based on’, my sweet, but I hope you like it. ♥♥♥ And I’m sure you’re generous enough not to mind that there are also little things in here for our other friends **reveuse2** and **babydracky**.

♦

It was the morning after his twenty–first birthday, so Bradley was slumped low in a chair at the back of the class with Santiago when their teacher Trent came in balancing his usual chaotic pile of books, papers and folders. ‘Good morning, people,’ Trent sang out in his usual project–to–the–gods tones.

Bradley and Santiago had braced themselves for it, so they were able to mumble well enough, ‘Good morning, Trent,’ along with the rest of the class.

The pile of resources was lowered to the teacher’s desk and went sliding across it as usual. Mal, who always sat at the front, caught the topmost item before it sailed to the floor. ‘Ah yes,’ said Trent in ringingly disapproving tones. ‘Take that to Bradley, would you, Malcolm?’

Bradley blinked in confusion as Mal obediently got up and wound his way towards him with a large flat envelope in his hands.

‘And _don’t_ have your mail sent here in future, Bradley James. The Drama Centre does _not_ provide you with a postal service, and such breaches only give admin yet another reason to make my life a living hell, and even _you_ are not cruel enough to want that, _surely_.’

‘Cruel…? _Me?_ ’ he protested, though weakly because by now he was staring down at the envelope on the desk before him. It looked expensive – made of some thick pure white paper with a weave to it. He brushed fingertips across it, feeling the texture of the weave, as he read the sender’s address printed in the top left corner. It appeared to be from a law firm named Wilberforce, Davy and Gay. He was too bemused to smirk.

‘What is it?’ Santiago whispered.

‘Don’t have the faintest.’

‘Maybe… maybe you just came into an inheritance.’

Bradley spared a fond smile for his friend. ‘You’re such a romantic.’

‘That’s why you love me,’ Santiago opined.

‘That’s why I wish you loved me,’ Bradley countered. They jostled elbows for a moment before Bradley tried to tear open the envelope surreptitiously enough not to draw Trent’s attention – the teacher had already forgotten them and was rambling on about Beckett or something. It took a couple of tries but eventually the large white envelope opened and Bradley reached in to find a smaller brown envelope. Which looked in perfect condition but somehow… old. As if it had been carefully preserved for some years.

‘What is it?’ Santiago whispered again as they both stared down at it.

‘Santi mate, if I knew…’

‘Don’t call me that, Brad.’

There was no sender’s address on the smaller envelope, but Bradley’s name and a direction and date were written across it in spidery dark brown ink. In lettering like the calligraphy Bradley’s mum had gone mad for one long winter, but… but this seemed real, somehow. Like someone had actually written this for real in fountain pen on an old envelope. It read:

> Mr Bradley James  
> The Dramatic Centre  
> London  
> 11th October 2004

Well, there couldn’t be much inside, maybe just a sheet of paper, a letter or something. Bradley shrugged, and went to open this envelope a little more carefully. Perhaps no one had stuck it down properly, though, because the flap came apart almost as soon as he turned it over. Onto the desk slid a sepia–tinted photo and a handwritten note. Bradley picked up the photo in both hands and stared down at it. Intrigued.

A head–and–shoulders shot of an odd–looking man with a narrow face and the most lovely smile. It was the smile Bradley really noticed first. And then the soft affection shining in the man’s eyes. The smile was wide yet gentle, and the left corner of the man’s mouth kicked up in genuine warmth. The smile _glowed_ out of the man’s eyes as well, as if he was giving himself wholeheartedly to the camera, or to whoever he intended the photo for. And then Bradley noticed the high cheekbones, and the pale skin, and the surprisingly strong chin. Then the thick dark hair which seemed unruly despite gleaming with product… Except… Well, the man seemed to be dressed in a formal evening suit and bowtie, only it looked old–fashioned. That and the drapery behind him made this look like one of those photos you could have taken for you on piers or at carnivals, where you dressed up as a sheriff or shogun or whatever, and they tinted the photo to make it appear a hundred years old. Except… like the envelope and even the spidery writing, it felt kind of real. Well preserved, and undamaged, yet real. Old.

Bradley turned the photo over, but there was no date or any other kind of writing on the back. And if it had been taken commercially, surely there’d be an address or some kind of advertisement? Come to that, surely the man himself would seem… modern and posed. Out of place, or more to the point out of time. Bradley turned it back over and stared down at the odd–looking man with the narrow face and the beautiful smile. He wasn’t posed – he was utterly comfortable. He was… also an actor perhaps, used to being in front of a camera, used to giving himself visually, committing himself to playing a role or conveying an image. Or he was simply so deeply content to be having this photo taken for the one he loved…

It was probably due to the remains of his hangover, but Bradley’s head was swimming a little. He frowned, and tried to concentrate on details. The man was maybe about Bradley’s own age, and yet there was an air about him, a kind of confidence that made him seem older in wisdom if not in years. This was a man who knew who he was and what he wanted. Bradley shivered, and whispered, ‘But he’s so very beautiful.’

‘D’you think so?’ Santiago whispered doubtingly at his shoulder.

‘Bradley James,’ cried Trent from the front of the class, making the hungover boys wince. ‘When you are _quite_ finished with your morning’s mail, perhaps you might care to pay attention?’

‘Yeah, sorry,’ Bradley mumbled, slipping the photo carefully and very reluctantly back into the old brown envelope. Santiago handed him the note, which he slipped away as well, before sliding the smaller envelope into the large white one. But he hadn’t read the note.

A few minutes later, once Trent’s attention was safely caught elsewhere, Bradley murmured to Santiago, ‘What did the note say?’

‘It said, _Come find me_. Then it said, _Come back to me_.’

‘Oh…’ Bradley sighed. Well, no, he didn’t _sigh_. He just happened to exhale at that moment, that was all.

‘I know,’ Santiago agreed, exhaling in much the same way. It seemed the romantic Chilean was already halfway in love despite the fact he was irremediably straight.

Unlike his friend, Bradley wasn’t the romantic sort – but then again, he wasn’t straight, either.

♦

Santiago hadn’t mentioned one important point about the note, which was that it bore the logo and name of the Haymarket Theatre. Again, the paper looked genuinely old, and the logo was old–fashioned, certainly not the current one. The same spidery writing formed the message, in faded dark brown ink. The seven simple words Santiago had been so moved by, the first three large and confident, and the last four smaller and lower down on the notepaper, making them appear somewhat wistful. There was no name, either from or to – but the note had to be from the man in the photo. And the envelope was addressed to Bradley.

♦

He spent every moment he could that morning poring over these mysteries, and when lunchtime came Bradley headed down to the labs to find John, who functioned as the Drama Centre’s DP and stills photographer, and taught classes in cinematography. Bradley took another long look at the photo before handing it over. ‘What d’you think of this? It’s the kind of thing you could have taken in a booth on a pier or whatever. Isn’t it?’

John frowned over it, then took it over to his work bench to examine it better under a bright lamp. After a moment his breath whistled through his teeth. ‘Sure you could do that, if you can find a place with the right costumes and all. But they’re often two–bit operations. I could set up a shoot for you here, Bradley, if you want to be certain of the results. Margie can help you with the penguin suit. D’you want it for your portfolio, or are you trying to impress your way into an audition?’

‘No, I mean – No, it’s not something I’m looking to _do_. I just wanted to know about this photo. It’s not _real_ , is it?’

‘Sure it’s real.’ John started tilting it and turning it over, examining more than just the subject. ‘Late Victorian, I’d say. Look at the pasteboard it’s on. And the oval–shaped fading round the edges of the print. That wasn’t done by feathering in Photoshop, Bradley.’

‘Oh.’

‘It’s in good nick. And the image is hardly faded at all. I’ve seen some photos from that era in museums that weren’t preserved as well as this. Must have been kept somewhere dry and cool and dark this whole time.’ John cast him a look. ‘Where d’you find it? Is it a family thing?’

‘No, I – uh…’ Bradley hardly knew what to say. He reached out to take it back. Looked again at the beautiful man who smiled at him so lovingly. _Come back to me._ ‘Someone sent it to me.’

‘Sure and you’re a lucky bastard, Bradley James. I’ve always said so. That’s a bit of treasure you have there.’

‘Um… All right. Thanks.’ And Bradley offered a rather distracted nod of acknowledgement before wandering off.

♦

When his classes finished mid afternoon, he got on the Tube and headed to the address on the white envelope – three stops to Liverpool Street, and soon he was looking up at a modern glass shard on the fifteenth floor of which he would find Wilberforce, Davy and Gay. Whoever they were.

The receptionist was a rather attractive young woman of some kind of exotic descent who was scarily kitted out in long nails, killer heels and bold make–up. ‘Can I help you?’

Bradley figured he didn’t look anything like their usual clients or whatever. He dressed casually at the best of times, and that morning he’d taken even less care than usual due to the effects of the night before. ‘Um… Someone sent me this.’ He waved the white envelope. ‘I wanted to ask them about it.’

‘Who exactly sent it to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There would have been a compliments slip inside, if there wasn’t a letter.’

‘Oh.’ He peered into the larger envelope, and did indeed see a white bit of paper right at the bottom, as if it had been caught down there this whole time. ‘OK. Right.’ He looked at it, then handed it over.

‘Yes. Mr Hammond. He’s seeing a client at the moment, but if you care to wait, I’m sure he’ll be able to meet with you.’

‘OK. Thanks.’ Bradley settled into one of the sinfully comfortable leather chairs that lined the glass walls, and after a few minutes of disturbing quiet he pulled his MP3 player out and pushed in the earphones. And then, without even realising he’d got it out again, he found himself poring over the photo while listening to music which, despite the player being on random, seemed to be nothing but one love song after another.

Eventually some harmless looking guy loomed over him and lifted a hand to get his attention. ‘So, _you’re_ Bradley James,’ the fellow declared, eyes sparking and generally looking as if he’d grin in excitement if only he weren’t a lawyer. ‘That’s a mystery solved!’

‘Good,’ said Bradley. ‘Mr Hammond, right? You can tell me what’s going on?’

The man tilted his head in a quibble. ‘Not really, no. But, look, come through to my office, and I’ll tell you what I can.’

Which was, in the end, almost nothing. But it rocked Bradley’s world.

♦

The guy had a file open in front of him on his desk, which he kept referring to and reading carefully, but he couldn’t tell Bradley who’d asked for the envelope to be delivered to him – apparently that was privileged information – and he seemed to have no idea why or what was behind it. ‘That envelope has been in the firm’s keeping for some while now, Mr James. Our instructions were to deliver it to you on a certain date. We have done that. I’m afraid I can’t be of more help.’

Bradley was frowning over this, sensing that he was on the verge of falling into some deeper mystery still. ‘Well, um… what do you mean you’ve had it for some while? D’you mean months? Years?’

‘I mean decades, Mr James.’

Bradley’s frown etched itself into harder furrows, and a lone voice inside started telling him to leave well enough alone. ‘Decades?’

‘Yes.’

‘Though you had my name and the date of my twenty–first birthday?’

‘Yes. We had yesterday’s date, though I hadn’t realised the significance of it to you. May I offer you my congratulations on coming of age?’

‘Yeah, thanks. But how is that possible? I mean, even if that was two decades ago, how could anyone have known you’d find me at the Drama Centre? That doesn’t make any sense.’

Mr Hammond smiled at him with infuriating brightness. ‘I know! I’m very glad to have met you, Mr James, but that’s really only part of this whole puzzle. I think I can safely tell you…’ For long minutes he went back over the file and whatever instructions it contained, while Bradley sat there biting his lip and _forcing_ himself not to lean in and try reading anything upside down during the quick glimpse which was all he’d be allowed. ‘Yes, I don’t think I’d be overstepping my authority if I told you that the envelope and its contents were entrusted to our care in… 1894.’

Bradley just spluttered a bit. ‘What!’

‘Yes. 1894.’

‘But that’s, like, a hundred and ten years ago!’

‘Yes, exactly.’ And Hammond’s eyes were shining as if he were just delighted by the whole thing. Well, Bradley supposed it was probably somewhat more exciting than the man’s regular cases, but still… ‘Do you understand me, Mr James? The envelope and its contents, _and the direction on it_ , all date back to that time. Nothing has been added to, erased or tampered with.’

They talked for a few minutes longer, but there was nothing more that Hammond could or would say. So Bradley eventually left. With a burning desire to somehow get hold of that file. But he figured that would mean the filling in of lots of forms or going to the courts or whatever, and he knew nothing about any of that, not to mention the fact that he couldn’t afford a lawyer of his own…

Well. He’d just have to manage without.

♦

He lay in bed that night, unable to settle. Someone had known his name over a century ago. Someone had known his name and the day he’d come of age. And the fact that he could be found at the Drama Centre in London, even if they called it The Dramatic Centre. This was… too bizarre to even wrap his mind around.

Bradley turned over again, and lay curled up on his side. It wasn’t just any old someone, either. The person who knew his name was this intriguingly beautiful young man. Who sent Bradley a photo with the warmest smile, with the most delightful kick of the left corner of his mouth… The image was already printed in Bradley’s mind, so he could close his eyes now and examine it at leisure. That pale narrow face with the astonishing cheekbones. The thick hair you could lose yourself in. The soft open expression of the eyes… The sheer happy affection…

He eventually fell asleep, and he dreamed of love.

♦

There was a library and archive at the Barbican which the Drama Centre students were always being encouraged to use. Bradley made his way there for the first time the next day. He came to a halt just inside the doors, overwhelmed by the rows and rows of books and boxes of all kinds. Where to even start?

Luckily a woman soon appeared from the far reaches to his left, and asked, ‘Can I help you?’ And he trusted her immediately, cos she looked like the quintessential librarian, with her long fine hair swept up into a practical bun and a pair of glasses that were years ahead of her clothes in terms of fashion.

Bradley took out the precious photograph, and showed it to her. ‘I need to work out who this guy is. I think he’s an actor – but that’s just a guess. All I know for sure is that he was at the Haymarket Theatre in 1894.’

She nodded absently, her mind obviously already racing ahead, and her eyes sparking at the mystery. Bradley was beginning to conclude that the love of a good puzzle to solve was more common than he’d ever have suspected. ‘Of course. Come with me.’ And she led him in a jagged route down through the shelves until she reached her intended destination – stopping so abruptly that Bradley almost walked into her. ‘Here we are…’ she mused to herself, as she browsed a particular shelf, pulling out various volumes and stacking them in Bradley’s arms, before picking up a box herself, and then leading Bradley off to their right where they came upon a table and chairs. ‘Put those down, and take a seat.’ She cast him an amused look as she reached for one of the books he’d carried, and sat beside him. ‘I’m Hannah, by the way.’

‘Bradley. I’m a student at the Drama Centre.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Bradley.’ She’d already leafed through to a particular page, and soon she was saying, ‘1894 doesn’t appear to have been a very successful year. There were a couple of revivals, one by Edward Bulwer–Lytton who was actually quite popular in his day.’ When she saw Bradley’s blank look, Hannah explained, ‘Nowadays he’s mostly remembered for the opening of one of his novels: _It was a dark and stormy night_.’

‘Huh,’ said Bradley, not really caring.

Hannah shrugged. ‘I suppose every cliché has to start somewhere. If I give you the titles of these plays, you can look through that archive box for the handbills or programmes, all right?’ While Bradley started doing that, Hannah began leafing through a large old scrapbook into which were pinned various newspaper clippings, old photographs, and odd things such as theatre tickets and menus.

About halfway through the box Bradley spied something that made his heart beat faster. A programme with a drawing on the cover of the gathered cast. The man standing in the centre of it between two women was tall and lean, with a narrow face and thick dark hair barely restrained. Even though it was little more than a line drawing, there was no mistaking those cheekbones or that chin. Bradley stared at the man, spellbound. This was real. How could it be real?

‘What have you found?’ Hannah asked, breaking into his reverie. Bradley wordlessly indicated the drawing. ‘Ah, of course!’ Hannah cried. ‘I’ve been too literal about the year. That’s Oscar Wilde’s play _An Ideal Husband_. It opened in January 1895. May I…?’ She gently prised the programme from Bradley’s hands, and leafed through it to where the cast biographies were listed, along with grainy reproductions of photos. ‘That’s your man, isn’t it? He played Lord Goring himself! There’s very few details about him though, not like the others. They all merit a paragraph, and he barely has two sentences.’

Bradley had to clear his throat a couple of times before he could force out the question. ‘His name?’

‘Benedict. Merrill Benedict.’

He huffed as all his high–flown fancies crashed down round his ears. _‘Meryl?’_

‘Merrill,’ she corrected him, pointing at the proper spelling. ‘I realise it’s not very popular at present, but it’s been quite a common name for men over the centuries.’ She let him have the programme back, and instead began leafing ahead through the scrapbook.

‘Merrill,’ Bradley whispered, trying out the shape of the name in his mouth, while looking down at the photo in the programme. It was true that the man was more odd–looking than beautiful when he wasn’t shining with love. But, still… Bradley fell that little bit deeper. He must be mad.

After a couple of hours, though, Hannah had come up with little else for him. Merrill had appeared in another Wilde play at the Haymarket in 1893, though not in the starring role, but she could find nothing about where he came from, or what he did after the long run of _An Ideal Husband_ was done. ‘I can’t even find a _Times_ obituary, which is strange. Even if he lived in obscurity after this play, he’d already made enough of a name for himself to warrant the attention of the _Times_.’

‘D’you think he…’ The notion was unbearable. ‘D’you think he was sent to jail, like Oscar Wilde?’

Hannah considered Bradley for a moment. ‘What makes you think he was homosexual?’

Bradley shrugged. _He sent me his love. He wants me to go to him._ ‘Just a hunch.’

‘There’d be court records, if so – you could find out that way. But I suspect any such case involving someone so closely associated with Wilde would have been publicly linked with him. Wilde himself was arrested in April 1895, while this very production was still running.’

‘So, you think we’d already know about it, if Merrill was arrested, too?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘He may have moved to the Continent. Such men often did. England was not the… friendliest country in which to live.’

‘No,’ said Bradley firmly. ‘He wouldn’t have moved. We’re British. I mean, he’s – I’m –’ He stopped, suddenly feeling totally lame. But it had been such a strong instinct. _This_ was where they belonged, him and Merrill Benedict. He could feel it in his blood, in his sinews, in his bones. ‘We belong here. _This royal throne of kings,_ ’ he murmured, remembering his Shakespeare, ‘ _this sceptered isle… This precious stone set in the silver sea_ …’

‘This _right little, tight little island_ ,’ she countered with a wry smile.

‘Yes,’ he said, though he echoed her wryness. ‘This is home.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help, Bradley.’

‘Hannah, you’ve been great. I’ve got a name now, and a specific date. That’s awesome.’

‘I hope to see you and your fellow students here more often. This is a great resource, you know. We could help you with all kinds of things.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell my friends that,’ he promised, shaking her hand before leaving.

 _Merrill Benedict_. Already it felt like Bradley knew him – No, more than that. Bradley _recognised_ him at the very deepest level. Despite the fact they were separated by an impassable gulf, they belonged together. That was just the way it was. Now Bradley had to work out what to do about it.

♦

He turned next to his favourite resource for research. He turned to movies. Bradley went down to the local Blockbuster and rented every single movie he could find about time travel. When Santiago got back to their flat late that evening, he found Bradley sitting blearily cross–legged in front of the tv with, like, a hundred dvd cases scattered about him and the remote welded into the clutch of his right hand.

‘Bradley…?’ Santiago asked, approaching cautiously. ‘What’s going on?’

After a moment Bradley managed to drag his gaze away from the screen. ‘Oh, uh… Hey, Santi!’

‘I told you not to call me that, _Brad_.’ But Santiago sighed and as usual let it drop. ‘What are you doing?’

Bradley tilted his head back to better see his friend, and brightly announced, ‘I’m in love with a man named Merrill who’s, like, a hundred years older than me. Literally.’

‘Meryl?’ Santiago repeated.

‘I know, right? But he’s –’

Santiago had perched his rear on the sofa. ‘Is this about the guy in the photograph from yesterday?’

‘Yeah, of course. Who else? He wants me to go back to him, and –’

‘Bradley –’

‘He’s _real_ , Santiago. His name’s Merrill Benedict, and he was the first actor to ever play Lord Goring in _An Ideal Husband_ – it opened at the Haymarket on the third of January, 1895.’

‘What? How did you –?’

‘I have to go back to him, Santiago. I belong with him. It’s, like, destiny or something.’

‘Bradley, stop. Stop!’ Santiago reached to grasp his shoulder firmly, and shook it a little. ‘You’re talking like a crazy person.’

‘I know. I mean, I _know_ it seems that way, but it’s the truth. You have to – Well, no, you don’t have to believe me. But it’s real, my friend, and I’ve worked out what I’m going to do.’ He found the dvd cover and brandished it. ‘What Christopher Reeve did in _Somewhere in Time_. He put on all the right clothes and stuff, and went to the right place, hid away all the things that reminded him of his own time… and he _willed_ himself back to 1912.’

Santiago was staring at the cover photo of Reeve and Jane Seymour sitting by the seaside. Eventually he said, rather lamely, ‘Shouldn’t it be _Some **when** in Time_?’

Bradley growled in annoyance. ‘I thought you’d understand! You’re always the romantic, Santiago. I thought you’d even be… proud of me.’

‘But, Bradley, what you’re talking about… it’s impossible.’

‘Well, I don’t have a DeLorean, so what other choice do I have? I have to _try_!’

‘Oh, _Bradley_ …’ Santiago sounded almost heartbroken. He got down onto the floor behind Bradley with his legs either side, and curled up round his back, lay his head on Bradley’s shoulder, wrapped his arms around Bradley’s waist. ‘My friend,’ he said thickly. ‘Stay here with me. Don’t do this to yourself.’

‘Don’t do _what_ , do you mean…?’

‘My dearest friend… Don’t take this so seriously! It is a fancy, that is all. A fantasy. An interesting story.’

‘No, it’s real,’ he murmured, leaning back into the warm all–encompassing embrace.

‘Stay with me. Don’t think about this. If you stay, I will… I will love you as you asked me to.’

At this desperate offer the blood was wrung from Bradley’s heart. He closed his eyes, and tucked his head in close to Santiago’s. ‘My darling, _that_ was the fantasy. I know you can’t love me. It was stupid of me to even ask.’

‘I will try. Bradley, you are my friend. The rest will come. It is… less impossible than what you are suggesting.’

‘Santiago, don’t. Just… don’t.’ Bradley couldn’t bear it. If Santiago was that worried about him, if he was that upset, then Bradley must appear quite crazed. That was real, too. It was _all_ real. Bradley sighed. ‘San, Santi, my sweet hot Santiago, I’ll stop. I promise. You don’t have to worry.’

‘You’ll stay here with me?’

‘Of course I will, my darling.’

‘Good.’ And Santiago didn’t let him go for _hours_. Not so long ago that would have been Bradley’s idea of the sweetest thing on earth.

♦

Of course he’d lied, though. He’d lied through his teeth to his best friend, to the man he’d once yearned for. He couldn’t bear seeing Santiago so unhappy, but neither could he change his plans. He’d have to leave Santiago alone here in 2004 – but if the romantic Santiago knew for sure that Bradley was with his love, the man he was destined for, then surely Santiago would eventually be happy for him. Even if he must mourn for a little while first.

Bradley borrowed the right costume from Margie, the suit and shirt and bowtie and boots. He wasn’t quite game to ask her about Victorian underwear, so he went commando. He’d found a pawn shop with a genuine Victorian fob watch, and swapped it for the extravagant wrist watch his father had sent him for his twenty–first. He’d found a book in the Drama Centre library about historical hairstyles and make–up, and had done what he could with his own hair.

Then he made his way to the evening performance at the Haymarket – he hardly knew what the play was, but oddly it was something by Beckett – and during the interval he snuck backstage, found a dingy little room up near the attics which looked like it might well have been abandoned for a century or more. And in the midst of some dusty old props he sat and waited. Staring every now and then in the filtered moonlight at the photo of his beautiful love.

When the theatre below him at last fell silent, he closed his eyes. And he thought as hard as possible about the third of January, 1895. He _imagined_ it, he created it around him. It was opening night of Oscar Wilde’s new play, starring the intriguing Merrill Benedict. And Bradley James would meet him there. Or, more to the point, _then_.

♦

The air had shifted around him. Bradley lifted his head, knowing that nothing had changed and yet everything had. The world had shifted. The moonlight was brighter. The smells, the temperature, the _feel_ of the place… He didn’t quite dare to believe, not yet, but somehow he _knew_. He smiled dazedly. Clambered to his feet, feeling a bit lightheaded. Dusted himself down. Cautiously let himself out of the room and trod silently down the stairs to the next floor. The wooden stairs didn’t creak like they did on his way up – they looked almost new.

There was a low buzz in the theatre now, as there would still be on opening night, but Bradley didn’t meet anyone until he ran into a stagehand on the level just above the stalls. Bradley cleared his throat, and tentatively asked, ‘The dressing rooms? Uh, Mr Benedict’s dressing room, in particular.’

A thumb indicated another stairwell, and then jabbed downwards. ‘Basement,’ the man said gruffly. ‘Sir.’

‘Thank you, yes. Of course.’ Bradley tried a polite smile, but then headed off quickly before anything about him might strike the man as peculiar. Of course the dressing rooms were in the basement. Probably the exact same rooms were in use. Bradley made his way to the one always given to the star, and smiled to see _Mr. M. Benedict_ written in a flowing script on the name card. Well, he didn’t so much smile as grimace, strangely close to tears. He was about to meet the love of his life.

He paused for a moment with his head close to the door. There was some quiet conversation inside, as if a small group of people, both men and women, were happily chatting together. All very civilised. Well, it didn’t seem as if he’d be interrupting anything. Bradley tapped gently at the door, and opened it. Took one tentative step inside.

He immediately saw Merrill Benedict across the small room, standing by a dressing table surrounded by roses, so many bunches of red roses in glass vases, and the golden glow of gas lamps. Beautiful. Of course he was utterly beautiful in three–dimensional living colour. Merrill had been talking with a woman, but he turned his head now to see the newcomer, and his expression was astonished. Then delighted. ‘Arthur!’ he cried.

Bradley’s rather shaky smile fell. _What? Who?_ But perhaps he was meant to pretend. Perhaps there was some story Merrill had set up, an explanation for how and why Bradley had suddenly dropped into Merrill’s life. ‘Yes,’ he managed, taking his cue and trying to smile again. ‘As you see.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘No. No. Uh, quite.’

Luckily, Merrill’s other guests could all take their cue as well, and they began saying their farewells and tactfully leaving. Bradley stepped further inside so as not to block the doorway, and he smiled and nodded as people passed him, in as gentlemanly a manner as he could. Eventually Merrill murmured, ‘You as well, _ma petite puce_ ,’ and a little urchin scrambled past Bradley, casting him a suspicious resentful look before dragging the door closed behind him. And the two of them were alone.

Well. Bradley hardly knew what to say.

‘You returned,’ Merrill said. They were still standing about as far apart as you could get within the small room. The scent of roses in the enclosed warmth was almost overbearing.

‘Yes, I came back. As you asked.’

‘Two months is such a very long time when one is alone… Did you see anything of the play? It was, I modestly submit, rather a success.’

‘Yes. I mean, no. Uh, I didn’t –’ Bradley sighed. This wasn’t going according to plan. Why weren’t they in each other’s arms and kissing already?

Merrill was likewise beginning to look confused. ‘Arthur? What’s wrong? Why don’t you…?’

‘Why d’you call me that?’ Bradley asked rawly.

‘No,’ said Merrill very lightly but with a hint of horror. ‘No, you’re _not_ Arthur. Who are you?’

‘Bradley.’

 _‘What?’_

‘I came back…’ Oh, this was ghastly. He was going to burst into tears in a moment. He hadn’t cried since he was, like, _ten_. ‘You said, _Come back to me_. And I found a way… Merrill, I found my way back to you.’

‘No!’ Merrill was full of wonder, full of horror. ‘That’s impossible! Bradley James? From the year 2004?’ He said it _twenty–oh–four_. ‘You have the ability to travel through time by then? Some kind of mechanical transportation device, as Mr Wells writes of?’

‘No, I just…’ _God, HG Wells?_ ‘I managed it myself. I made it happen. But, please – don’t talk about it too much. I don’t want to get pulled back. I need to… immerse myself in the present. The present being 1895.’ He repeated it to himself, like an affirmation. ‘1895. 1895. 1895.’

‘Bradley… my dearest love…’

That was more like it. ‘Merrill,’ he murmured, liking the name by now. Loving the man.

‘You did such a thing… for me?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. You asked me to! You sent me the photo – How was I supposed to resist? What else was I meant to do? I found a way!’

‘No,’ Merrill said again, and he sank to sit at the dressing table. ‘I said, _Come find me_. I meant the me in that time. _Your_ time. Whenever there’s a you, there’s a me. That’s just how it works.’

‘You said, _Come back to me_ ,’ Bradley repeated stubbornly. Wondering if he’d been a complete fool.

Merrill considered him kindly. ‘If I did, I was thinking of Arthur. The you in my time. His father – We were parted. It won’t last, of course, this separation – but Arthur felt he owed the old man and the estate his undivided attention for a while. He’s not the heir, of course, but any son of the aristocracy has his duties…’

It was sinking through Bradley now. The whole horrible truth. ‘There’s a you in my time?’

‘There’s always a me for you, Bradley. You rarely remember, though. You rarely know to come looking for me. And I don’t always take _all_ my memories with me from life to life. On the odd occasions when I can glimpse the future, I try to arrange a message. Usually to myself. Some way of prompting myself, just to be sure. In this vision, though, I only saw you. And so I sent you the message – only a few days ago, for me. I sent you the photo, so you’d know who to look for.’

‘D’you always look the same?’

‘Much the same, yes.’

‘Good,’ said Bradley hoarsely. ‘Cos you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

Merrill smiled – a very private, sweet, contented little smile. ‘It is one of your many graces, Arthur, that you should always think so.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Bradley muttered disconsolately. His grand gesture had gone grandly awry. How deflating was that?

‘You’ve never done such a thing for me before. You’ve always been a devoted lover, but you’ve never before even tried the impossible, let alone achieved it. And all for love of me! I confess, I am amazed.’

When Bradley looked up, he saw that Merrill had stood, and had taken a step towards him. Suddenly Bradley’s breath was stopped in his mouth, and he wondered if now, _now_ was the moment in which they reached for each other and kissed. God, he loved this man _so very much_ , and they belonged together, that was just a fact, and he had no idea why he wouldn’t remember that in each and every life, why he wouldn’t be _born_ knowing it – he hadn’t even felt the instinctive certainty that Santiago always had, that there was a perfect someone out there waiting for him.

Merrill had taken another step closer, and the roses seemed to waft them along, and – and suddenly Merrill hissed, _‘Lock the door!’_ and his face was white with panic. There were confident footsteps approaching down the corridor outside. _‘Bradley! Turn the key!’_

And just in time he reached one hand back and quickly turned the key clockwise. There was a quiet _snick_. And the footsteps stopped just outside, and the door handle rattled. ‘Merrill?’

Merrill sagged where he stood – and though he hardly needed to confirm it, he whispered to Bradley, _‘Arthur.’_

‘Merrill, it’s Arthur. Did you just lock the door?’

‘Yes,’ the man cried out shakily.

‘I apologise – I apologise _most_ _sincerely_ – for arriving so late and missing the performance, but will you not forgive me and let me in?’

And the strangest thing was happening to Bradley’s loyalties and sympathies. Part of him was defensively taking Merrill’s side, cos he was the man Bradley loved. Another part of him was jealously wishing this Arthur to the devil. And yet another part of him _was_ Arthur, quite simply – part of him was the man outside the dressing room, hoping to be reunited with his love and being foiled at the very last moment.

‘I can’t,’ said Merrill, drawing closer to the door.

Bradley stepped back as quietly as he could. Getting out of the way, futilely looking for somewhere to hide, just in case. God, there wasn’t even a wardrobe. There was a long couch he could get behind, but that was about it.

Merrill added, ‘I’m, uh – I’m not decent.’

‘I should hope not,’ Arthur retorted, low and with a wicked chuckle – and Bradley grinned, wanting to laugh, and finding it both strange and natural that the two of them should share the same sense of humour.

‘Arthur… I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are back in London. But would you let me have tonight to myself?’ Merrill sighed. ‘Opening night. You understand. It has all been rather… overwhelming.’

‘Yes. Yes. I understand.’ Quiet stretched for long moments, but they both knew he was still out there. There had been no footsteps walking away. There had been no farewell, either kind or angry. Eventually, just very calmly, the man said, ‘Merrill my dear friend, promise me you don’t have anyone else in there with you, and I’ll do as you wish.’

Merrill grimaced in pain. ‘Arthur, no… You’re the only man for me.’

‘Where’s your little French flea? Is he in there?’

‘No, I asked him to leave, too. Arthur, I’ve never wanted anyone else. You _know_ that. I am yours. You remember that.’

‘Yes. I remember.’

‘Then, please. Come and dine with me tomorrow, but just allow me this one night.’

‘Yes, all right.’ There was the sound of a long breath taken in, and perhaps a coat being straightened as he drew himself up. ‘Goodnight, Merrill.’

‘Goodnight, Arthur. Thank you _so much_ for coming back.’

‘Yes. Goodnight.’ A step. Two. Then another pause. ‘Merrill, I am told you were magnificent. I was not surprised, of course, but I will see that for myself tomorrow evening.’

‘Thank you, Arthur,’ Merrill whispered – though somehow Bradley knew that Arthur heard him. And then the footsteps faded away down the corridor.

♦

Eventually Merrill turned around and considered Bradley. He didn’t speak.

‘Well,’ said Bradley after a while. ‘Why couldn’t we meet, him and me? Would we destroy each other in some kind of matter / anti–matter thing? Like, we can’t both exist at the same time? Is that why you wouldn’t let him in?’

‘No,’ said Merrill slowly, still looking at him. ‘That isn’t why.’

Bradley thought about it for a moment. ‘Oh,’ he said.

‘Quite,’ said Merrill.

A moment later they were in each other’s arms, kissing as if they’d both achieved the impossible in order to be there, to be _then_ , to be together. Which, really, they had.

♦

The affection, the love, the passion candidly glowing in Merrill’s eyes, that was expected. The intensity and heat of the blueness of those eyes was a startling revelation. Those lips, when they weren’t smiling, were full – and when they weren’t sepia–tinted, they were a deliciously enticing pink. They soon, however, progressed beyond eyes and lips. Suit jackets were shrugged off shoulders and left abandoned on the floor. ‘The couch,’ Merrill muttered urgently as his long fingers dealt deftly with Bradley’s bowtie and the pin fastening his collar. ‘The couch,’ he repeated, backing away towards it so that Bradley followed after, his own hands not so deft. Merrill groaned in frustration and took over the work on his own tie and collar while Bradley started fumbling down the buttons of his own shirt.

Soon Bradley was bare–chested, and Merrill was eyeing him with salacious interest. ‘Your Arthur isn’t quite so toned, then?’ Bradley commented with mock innocence.

Merrill seemed caught between admiration of Bradley and protectiveness of Arthur. ‘Don’t,’ he eventually advised. ‘ _Comparisons are odious_.’

‘True.’ Bradley had unbuttoned his flies by then, and belatedly bent over to unknot his boots. As he stood up, he let the loose trousers drop to the floor, and he stepped out of them towards where Merrill now waited, sitting perched naked on the edge of the couch. That long lean body all his, for now at least. Merrill’s beautiful narrow face turned to him, paler still with a last moment of doubt, of guilt. ‘It’ll be all right,’ Bradley murmured. ‘I’m him, aren’t I? And he’s me.’

‘Would you want to share the me in your time with Arthur?’

‘No,’ he honestly replied. ‘But…’ And he delivered it with all Kyle Reece’s raw earnest passion: ‘ _I came across time for you_ , Merrill.’

Which worked, of course, as it had worked on Sarah Connor and on Bradley himself – and Merrill lay back with the most beautiful moan as Bradley moved over him. And they tangled there on the narrow couch, all limbs and torsos and mouths and cocks, shifting together, losing themselves in the heat of it, the eternal communion of ivory skin and gold skin. And it was very right and very wrong at the same time, it was deliciously wicked and it was the purest love all at once. Merrill seemed to adore being below Bradley, and yet he never once stopped moving or loving or _doing_ , so that Bradley couldn’t have described either of them as entirely active or entirely passive. It was like the best and wittiest conversation in the world, with each of them contributing, both acting and reacting. And when the end finally came – as sweet as roses, as warm as gaslight, as beautiful as a loving smile – they kissed and gasped and groaned their way into the most comfortable peace Bradley had ever known.

♦

They lay there together, without the space or the wish to be further apart than a breath, a pulse. Bradley watched his lover, his love, examined him carefully, reliving and exploring anew. Tangling his fingers in that thick dark hair. Pressing his mouth to Merrill’s again. Running the tip of his nose down a sharp collarbone. Merrill watched him, too, with those astonishing blue eyes, with those long pale fingers running lightly over his shoulders and back.

‘How will I find you again?’ Bradley murmured. ‘In my time.’

‘I don’t know. But I’ll be looking, too. I always remember.’

‘Can’t you give me a clue? What will your name be?’

Merrill shrugged. ‘I really don’t know, Bradley. But it will probably be something similar.’ He glanced away for a moment, considering. ‘Do you know when new parents say, _He doesn’t look like an…_ ’ One hand gestured in the air, reaching for inspiration. ‘ _He doesn’t look like an Eric, he looks like an Arthur_. They still say things like that, I take it, in your day?’

‘Yeah, but… how come I’m named Bradley, then?’

‘It’s a fine old English name. Very appropriate.’

‘So you’ll be Merrill again, or maybe, uh… Marley, or…’

‘Merlin,’ the man whispered.

Bradley looked at him. ‘Are you serious? Merlin and Arthur?’

Merrill nodded. ‘Those were our names in our first lives.’

‘You’re kidding me. _The_ Merlin and Arthur?’

Another mute nod.

‘Oh, man…’ Bradley couldn’t get his mind around that. Maybe it wasn’t true. Hell, maybe _none_ of this was true.

‘Bradley –’

‘I dunno. I can believe quite a lot. _Obviously_ , or I wouldn’t be here. But that’s kind of… one step beyond.’

‘All right,’ said Merrill quite easily. ‘Actually, I don’t always tell you this part.’

‘Anyway, if we _were_ … why aren’t I, like, king and stuff? I mean, I’m nobody, really. And can you do magic? Why are you an actor? Why aren’t we out there saving the world?’

Merrill’s smile was fond. ‘In some lives our vocations are stronger than in others. But the love is always strong. _Always_. And you always leave the world a better place than it was before. Not everyone can say that.’

‘And you?’

‘I always serve you, my liege. In one way or another.’

Bradley looked at him a bit sceptically. ‘That’s kind of one step beyond belief, too.’

‘All right.’ Just very equably.

They kissed for a lovely moment, but the kiss was already tinged sad by their imminent parting. Bradley lifted up and untangled himself from the long limbs of his beautiful lover, and he sat there on the couch, naked, while Merrill settled beside him, not touching. Bradley thought disconsolately about starting to sort out whose shirt was whose, and in casting his gaze over the mess of clothes he spied the brown envelope that had started all this. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Did you get that photo taken for Arthur or for me?’

‘The photograph I sent you? It was taken for Arthur.’

‘You were so full of love. I thought it was for me.’

Merrill sighed gustily. ‘The love… was also for you.’

‘Have you given it to him yet?’

‘No. He’s been at his father’s.’

‘Don’t. Let it be mine. Yours and mine. So we have something that’s just ours.’

‘Bradley. I thought you accepted that you’re him, and he’s you.’

‘I may have just said that to get into your trousers.’

‘You’re not that cruel.’

‘Aren’t I?’

Merrill pushed a bit closer, and lifted a companionable arm around Bradley’s back, leant his head on Bradley’s shoulder. But he said, ‘You’ll have to go back, you know.’

‘I know.’ Bradley sighed. Then something occurred to him. ‘Um… Hey, tell Oscar Wilde to move to Europe – the Continent. Soon. Like, before April. Maybe you and Arthur should go, too. Not with Oscar Wilde, I mean, but –’

‘We belong here,’ Merrill protested.

‘Yeah, all right. I knew that. Um, and invest in the internet. Google, especially. And, um…’

‘Bradley. I want your love, not your investment advice.’

‘Oh, I love you, I _do_ love you, and how am I gonna find you? I’ll be nothing at all until I find you.’

‘Tell me about 2004,’ Merrill said calmly. ‘Maybe together we can work out where I’ll be.’

‘Well, I hardly know what to say. Everything’s different, and everything’s the same. I go to the Drama Centre in Clerkenwell. My best friend is Santiago. He’s from Chile, in South America, and he’s so hot I thought I was in love with him for the longest time. Do you have drama schools here? Or indeed Chileans. Do you – Merrill –’

‘Goodbye, Bradley.’

There was a harsh ringing in his ears, and the gas lamps were fading, Merrill’s arm slipped down round his waist and then was gone. _‘Merrill!’_ It was dark suddenly, and cold, and he had fallen to the floor, he was lying on the cold floor, maybe he had hit his head on something – and then maybe he sank down through the floorboards, cos he was alone and naked and lost, and there was nothing but darkness pressing him down.

♦

‘Bradley… Bradley… Come back to me, my friend. My darling friend…’ Held in warm arms, being rocked back and forth. ‘ _Please_ , my darling. Wake up now, come back to me. It’s all right. I have you. I have you. I love you. Bradley, please…’

‘Santi –’ he managed hoarsely.

‘Yes, oh yes, my darling. It’s all right now. It’s all right. They’ve sent for an ambulance. I have you now. It’s all right. My god, you’re so _cold_ …’

‘I was _there_ , Santiago. I went back, I met him. We made love.’

‘Yes, my darling, of course you did. Of course you did. Oh, I wish I could warm you up properly.’

‘Merrill…’

‘Hush now, Bradley, it’s all right. I have you.’

♦

It was written up as some kind of stress–related breakdown, but the hospital released him within hours, as Bradley seemed to bounce back in terms of health, and even Santiago had to admit that the only thing wrong with Bradley now was that he seemed a little less cheerful than he had been. Despite which, Bradley was full of hope for perhaps the first time in his life, even though he figured the waiting was going to be horribly difficult. But Santiago couldn’t fault him there either, because Santiago himself had often spoken about waiting for The One, that special someone meant for him alone.

So he waited. He waited and he watched. For a while Bradley considered travelling, moving from place to place, covering the whole of Britain if he had to. But if this was destiny, then he was just as likely to meet Merrill at the Saturday markets two blocks from home as in Manchester or Brighton or Belfast or Glasgow. And Merrill might well remember or have left himself a message about the Drama Centre.

It took three years of increasingly frustrated waiting. But eventually their meeting came about. Bradley had gone for the role of Prince Arthur in a new BBC production, with a massive sense of irony and a feeling of complete entitlement – both of which probably worked for him, cos he won the role.

And one day, at last, he walked into the studios to do read–throughs with the young Irishman cast as Merlin, and there he was. In this life, his name was Colin Morgan, and he was all scruff and long sideburns and baggy casual clothes, and even carrying a little extra weight – looking as completely unlike Merrill Benedict as he could, pretty much. They were introduced, and they shook hands. But they had already met each other’s curious gaze, and they both knew. They _knew_.

‘You remember,’ said Bradley, hoarsely, under the watchful eyes of the creators and director and BBC bods.

Colin did his best Kyle Reese impression: ‘ _I came across time for you, Sarah_.’

Bradley shivered. ‘Did you give him the photo?’

‘No. No, it’s yours alone.’ _I’m yours alone._

‘You two know each other already?’ Johnny asked, bemused.

‘No,’ said Bradley. ‘Not really.’

‘ _It was another time_ ,’ Colin added, whimsically. ‘ _Another place_.’

‘ _Another country_ ,’ Bradley put in. And they shared a laugh, the first of so very many, before settling into the seats allotted them.

There would be time enough to ask for Colin’s no doubt excellent reasons for not coming to find Bradley at the Drama Centre years before. Time enough to greet the man with something far more intimate than a handshake. Time enough for love, no matter how massive, and for making the world a better place, no matter how slightly. And if they ran out of time in this life, there was always the next.

 _I love you – **you** – d’you know that, whether you’re Colin or Merrill or Merlin._

 _And I love **you** , Bradley. I love all the men you’ve been and all the men you’ve yet to be, because you are always the best of us. But most of all I love **you** , the ordinary man at the heart of the greatness. It is our destiny._

 _Destiny, yes._ Bradley smiled at the beautiful young man before him. _And what did you once say about always serving me…?_

Those astonishing blue eyes narrowed with laughter, and that smile kicked up the left corner of that ravishingly ravishable mouth. _Don’t push your luck, mate._

And Bradley bubbled over with laughter, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered to the other men and the women in the room, who held his fledgling career in their hands.

‘Everything’s all right?’ Julian asked.

‘Never better,’ Bradley averred. ‘Never ever better.’

 _Never ever_ , Colin agreed with a wickedly sultry look. And Bradley started paying more attention to the script, if only for the sake of finishing the day as early as possible and rushing his newfound love back to his hotel room.

♦


End file.
